Genderless Misdeeds

On a recent episode of the Showtime series Shameless it comes to the attention of the Gallagher family that a convicted pedophile has moved into their neighborhood.

The eldest Gallagher brother, fearing for the welfare of his younger siblings, walks down to the local bar and puts together a posse of men. The goal was to intimidate the pedophile into moving away from the area.

But when the vigilante group rings the doorbell of the convicted felon, they are met with a young very attractive female. Disappointed, they gather up their bats, chains and bare fists and walk away.

The female felon was viewed as every boy’s fantasy instead of what she really was-- a child abuser.

At some point in one my daughter’s time in the high school, several boys noticed the physical attractiveness of one of the school’s female employees. And so they create a Facebook group called I want to bang “Employee XX”.

The principal, upon knowledge of this very large all-male Facebook group not only called each boy individually down to his office for a discussion on sexual harassment and cyber impropriety, but also called in all the parents of the boys as well.

It was a very big deal.

But at exact same time that all this turmoil was going on with the boys creating the I want to Bang Employee XX Facebook group, the principal also became aware that several high school girls had also created their own Facebook group . The girls called theirs’  I want bang “Teacher XY”—a group of female students dedicated to the sexual worship of a very popular and athletically built male teacher.

But not one female student belonging to this Facebook group met with any trouble from the principal. Not one parent of these girls was called. The principal perceived this Facebook group as flattery and not sexual harassment. He remained oblivious to the gravity of the female students’ cyber impropriety. He saw no harm in what the girls had done--he did not view both behaviors of the students as apples to apples.

And while we have come a long way in re-calibrating the what good for the goose is good for the gander scale, there is still deep rooted misunderstanding and confusion over appropriate sexual behavior. There is still inequality between the sexes. Education is still lacking. Because when an adult woman takes advantage of an underage boy, it is pedophilia and not a fantasy come true; and when a man endures inappropriate sexual attention in the workplace from a female or a group of females it is sexual harassment and not flattery.

Everyone needs to study the rules without prejudice—because misdeeds have no gender.

Dreaming Large

About 10 or more years ago my friend Lynn and I took our daughters for a day in Manhattan. And while we were shopping in Pearl River, a store  in Greenwich Village, it came to our attention that Kelly Ripa was there too—with her daughter in a stroller and her son at her side.

I tried to be normal. I tried to ignore Kelly’s presence. But I could not squelch my excitement.

And so as unobtrusively as possible I meandered over to her and said I am so sorry to bother you, but I am so star-struck.

And with kindness, Kelly smiled and leaned over to me as if she was telling me the secrets of the universe and replied You really have to raise your standards. I am really not that big a deal.

When I first started writing my blog my fantasy was to be published—to write a book. But after a while I realized that anyone could write a book—especially an e-book and have it published. So I altered my fantasy to be discovered by a famous person and then have a weekly sit-com called Thoughts From Karenland. But recently it occurred to me that that fantasy wasn’t big enough either----my make-believe world needed to be really really big—it needed to be extreme. And so I have decided to alter it again into its newest incarnation:  Thoughts From Karenland—The Musical:a song and dance extravaganza.

Something clever and outrageous that rivals Wicked.

Because if you are going to dream, it should  not just be large, it should be ridiculously large—something well well beyond reality.

And when Kelly Ripa comes backstage after the premier of my musical—a performance that receives a standing ovation, rave reviews from The Times and eventually goes on to win Tony Awards--she will beg to get my autograph.  And in all humility, as a star struck fan, she will lean in to me and say I remember you from Pearl River all those years ago. It’s been my fantasy ever since then to meet you again---and tonight my dream has finally come true!      

Ignorance Can be an Excuse

I can remember as clear as day my grandmother Manello telling me to heed Randy Newman’s warning in the song Short People. It was her belief that short people were to be mistrusted—they lied and schemed. They all had beady eyes and rat teeth which was further proof of their evil intent.

I was to avoid short people at all costs.

My grandmother, was not a person of low intellect or someone of mal-intent, she was just not well-educated, which accounted for her racist comments.

And when my cleaning woman came to my house last Friday to do her weekly work she remarked at the sight my redecorating Oh my!! You do such a good job. Everything is so like you. And I love that you do not decorate Italian(like).

Had that last remark come from any other person I would have said What is that supposed to mean? How do Italians decorate?

But I understood that her comment wasn’t meant to be ethnically unkind—racist. The comment stemmed her life experience and her limited factual base. It wasn’t racist because it was all that she knew.

And when my grandmother was done spewing her words of off-center wisdom I said But Nonny—that song is a parody. It is meant to demonstrate the evil of prejudice—not the evil of petite stature. Besides which—you stand 5’0”tall —and I stand 5’1”—we are both short people—should we be avoiding each other?

I had given her something to think about.

Which is why I think racist remarks must always be understood with the context of which they are being said. One must determine the baseline of a person’s knowledge. And while ignorencia non excusat is the basis of law, sometimes practically speaking,  ignorance is a valid excuse. Sometimes things said and done are not an issue of not knowing better, they are simply an issue of not knowing that you do not know better.

For the Love of Sadie

Long before Doncaster, Carlisle or Worth, there was Sadie. Sadie, was my grandmother’s friend and neighbor who, in the late 1960’s, sold on-trend shift style dresses from her two-bedroom garden-style cooperative apartment in Yonkers. Dresses—that that Jewish lady clients, as well as my Catholic mother and her friends, affectionately called schmatas.

And so, also with affection, Sadie became known to all that knew her, as the schmata lady.

It is not uncommon for me to receive comments and feedback on my blog. And because my readership is largely comprised of people with whom I am acquainted either directly or indirectly, I am rarely contacted by total strangers.

But last week was different. Last week I received an email from a man I did not know. He wrote that as part of his creative process (he was/is a professional writer) he often googled the names of people from his own past. And that is how he came upon one of my blog posts—about Hubertine Wilkie—his (and my) piano teacher.

The man’s email was quite humorous and engaging. His experience with Miss Wilkie mirrored mine—which was quite miserable. He also mentioned where he grew up and the high school he attended. He also referenced his website—which I believe was done with the intent of validating the truth of his statements and to demonstrate that he was not a creeper.

He also inquired as to whether we might have been neighbors despite the fact that Miss Wilkie had privately taught hundreds of students all over the city of Yonkers and in the small town of Hastings for over 60 years.

So before writing him back, I stalked him on his web page. And I was shocked to see that he had won 7 Emmy awards for his songwriting and was a critically acclaimed playwright. And largely because he seemed legitimate and also because I was flattered that a man of such talent had taken the time to contact me, I took the chance of responding to his email—but I still remained cautious. People lie on the internet—I know this because I am a fan of the MTV show Catfish. And so I walked the line between forthright and cryptic.

I mentioned that I lived on Bolmer Avenue sandwiched between two specifically named neighbors—a dare to see if he recognized them. I also mentioned that my father had been the principal of his high school—a provocation to test his knowledge of the school district.

Amazingly the writer-man recognized the name of one of my neighbors—specifically recalling one of the children. He also named the year of his high school graduation with the correct name of the principal at the time.

And so I went further out on a limb—I mentioned that my grandparents also lived in the very large cooperative complex that the writer-man grew up in. And for no particular reason other than geographical reference, I mentioned that my grandparents lived near Sadie—the schmata lady.

His response was that he too lived near Sadie—the schmata lady. Sadie in fact lived so near his apartment that she lived in it.

Sadie was his mother.

And in my closet right now there must be 20 shift style dresses. People who know me know that they are my go-to outfit in the summertime. Many are colorful prints like those that hung on the racks in Sadie’s apartment. And to this day, to my inner circle of friends, I still refer to my summer shifts as schmatas—in honor of the larger than life woman who sold them—a woman who always hugged me every time she saw me.

And who would have thought that the connector between me and an acclaimed writer would have been Miss Wilkie—a bitter rigid drab woman who seemingly had no real friends. A woman, who never inspired anyone but her beloved student Walter, to explore notes and song.

But what I know for certain is that I am forever changed by this experience—an experience too rich and fantastical to make-up.

 It has inspired me more than ever to spill my thoughts on to the page—to be a storyteller---to invite thinkers to think and readers to read.  Because the world is so very big, and yet so very small—and we are all connected in ways we cannot imagine.

President's Week

At some point when my children were still in elementary school the school district debated whether or not to keep President’s week as time off from school.

The public had strong opinions both pro and con on the subject.

But among the most eloquent and persuasive arguments came from a fourth grade teacher from Stewart School. It was her belief that the extended holiday benefited all students both physically and mentally.

She reminded the Board of Education that the time off coincided with the peak of cold and flu season—that suspending class was an opportunity for everyone to get healthy and sanitize the classrooms. She also believed that an extended absence from school allowed young minds to recharge—and that cabin fever was as detrimental to learning as sneezing, coughing and runny noses. And she further indicated that it was her experience that when her students arrived back after the week off, their creativity was unleashed and their productivity increased.

Ultimately the Board agreed.

And that is why other than today, there will be no further blog posts this week.

My brain needs to recharge. It needs a little leisure time to cultivate its creativity.

But it will be back next week with some new thoughts to tell.

And hopefully you will be back, recharged also, and eager to listen.

Pushed Over the Edge

We were a bad class. All the lay teachers and nuns said it was so. We did not listen. We were disrespectful. We acted out.

And to that end I am sure that is why Sister Felice brought in Sister Grace to be our 7^th grade teacher. Sister Felice, the principal at Sacred Heart Elementary School, had good intentions. She thought Sister Grace could whip us into submission.

But Sister Grace, while a good conduit of factual information, had a sadistic streak. She was manipulative and sarcastic and derived pleasure from belittling her students. And so instead of reforming the class, her punishments only served to worsen already bad behavior.

Samantha came home from high school excited to tell me what had transpired in her honors Chemistry class that day. The teacher, who imparted textbook information well and was unquestionably easy on the eyes, had finally been maddened beyond mad by his classroom of ordinarily well behaved community-conscious scholarly students--students who had had enough of the teacher and therefore felt compelled to demonstrate their frustration. And so a top 10 academic organized a “book-drop.” At exactly 11 am every student would push their weighty Chemistry text on to the floor in a cacophonous expression of retaliation.

And the teachers’s fury post book-drop and the subsequent punishment elated the ordinarily non-rebellious students. They had finally managed to manipulate him. They had finally managed to de-oxygenate his control.

And on Ash Wednesday in 1973, Steven Kennedy organized a “Lenten Can” drop. When Sister Grace turned her back to write on the blackboard, after a silent 1-2-3, all 42 students dropped their aluminum Catholic Charities Collection bank off of their faux-wood Formica desk and onto the hard asbestos floor.

The noise was so loud that Sister Felice climbed the 2 flights of steps from her office to discover what (the hell) was going on.

And the punishment was severe but worth the crime---as was the punishment later that day for not reciting out loud our prayers at mass.

Because sometimes powerlessness is the master of provocation. Sometimes students are obligated to fire back after repeated assaults—they are pushed over the edge. Sometimes acting out loudly is better than pantomime.

And the Chemistry teacher at the high school is still teaching—but no other child of mine ever sat in a classroom with him again—I made sure of it.

And Sister Grace was let go amid whispers.

And everyone survived, despite the scars--- and with remembrance of the sweet sound of victory resounding in their ears.

B---- Stole My Look!

When I dropped Kara off at the high school for her prom, the new principal yelled out to me I love her dress and no one else has it!

I was both complimented and relieved.

No female wants to see a body double at an event. No woman enjoys the comparison and judgment that comes from being a duplicate.

No one wants to play a Joan Rivers’ Fashion Police game of Bitch Stole My Look.

And two weeks ago on a cold Friday morning I chose to wear my favorite 20 year old “Garden City ” embossed sweatshirt  with my 10 year old favorite navy blue fleece sweatpants and some white mismatched ankle socks. I had planned on cleaning the house alongside my cleaning woman.

But when Blanca came in the door she was wearing the exact same “Garden City” embossed sweatshirt which was long abandoned and given to her by my friend. With it she wore navy blue sweat pants and white cotton socks.

And when she looked at me, and I at her, it was a little awkward.

We were mirror images.

I had stolen her look at her work event.

And while I cannot tell you who wore this outstanding house-frau fashion look better, I can assure you that if Joan Rivers was watching us, the award  that neither of us would have ever have won, was best dressed.

On the Pope Stepping Down

I played a platform tennis match where the two women opponents either seriously underestimated my partner’s and my ability or greatly over estimated theirs’. And so the first two of the required three sets was a winning blowout on our side of the court.

One of the opposing players in no uncertain terms was displeased about the score. And so she turned to her partner and said I don’t want to play a third set. Let’s just forfeit and go home.

But her partner, clearly embarrassed by the displayed unsportsmanlike  behavior , responded with We have to play—We have to finish—the team expects to at least try and get one set.

We live in a world where commitment is of decreasing value. Changing cars and houses and jobs has become too easy. People expect instant everything—even in their relationships.

It’s all about speed and moving on to the next big thing.

There is no resolve to tough it out.

And when I woke up yesterday morning and heard that the Pope was quitting his job you could have knocked me over with a feather.

The reasons cited were his failing health.

I thought Are you serious? It’s been 600 years since a pope stepped down—and that was a political decision. Aren’t all popes infirmed by the end of their papacy? Many I am sure must have been feeble—in mind and/or body—and yet they sucked it up because that is what they signed up for. Maybe this is something Pope Benedict should have thought about before he accepted the papal duty at age 78. I thought the pope’s job was supposed to be in sickness and in health until death do us part. I thought his election was a lifetime commitment—like marriage. Somehow I do not recall Jesus hanging on the cross and saying Wow this crucifixion thing is too physically challenging—I wanna quit being the Lamb of God.

And while the two opponents did play the final third set of the platform tennis match—they still lost—although the score was much tighter and the points were more competitive. The two women fulfilled their commitment—ultimately they did not walk away when the going got tough.

And while the Vatican’s spin on the pope’s resignation is that it is a self-less act; for me---not so much. I feel like he is a quitter. I feel as though he has assumed the path of his future—an assumption he is not omniscient to make. And instead of having faith, he has chosen a  kind of papal euthanasia.

Fine Artwork

I can remember as a little girl watching my father paint. He did not use Benjamin Moore. He used oils—on canvas.

My father copied fine art.

His works hung all over my parents’ house. And when they moved I inherited them, and I displayed a few of them in my house.

Until very recently, I never gave it too much thought.

The paintings were nothing more than an “old man”, a “harlequin”, “a girl”, and some “card players.”

When I decided it was time to overhaul my living room I made a conscious decision to choose artwork that spoke to me. I did not want to simply purchase wall hangings based solely on color from Homegoods and then arrange them around my living room.

And so I went to the internet and meticulously combed through catalogues of art posters. But in the process of clicking on one painting, at the bottom of the screen popped customers who liked this also liked that. And the “that” that the customers liked were the copied paintings of my father—Modigliani, Derain, Manet and Cézanne.

My taste in artwork mirrored my father’s.

We both enjoyed modern art—specifically: fauvism—as does my youngest daughter.

And while my mother will become melancholy at family events over the fact that my father is no longer with us; that is not when I miss him. I miss the conversations we never had. I miss not having the opportunity to ask him questions that only he can answer. I want to know why he started painting and why he stopped. I want to know why he never painted a still life or a landscape—he only painted portraits. What did he find so haunting in the subject’s faces?—Why did they speak to him?

And the artwork that speaks to me—a Matisse and a Chagall—now hang in my living room.

They make me happy.

And “the girl”, the “old man” and the “card players” that my father painted have been moved to the hallway upstairs where they may greet me every morning as I go down to breakfast and may kiss me good night as I head to sleep.

My father’s paintings also speak to me.

They keep a conversation that I never had, alive.

Addressing the Food Police

When I picked Samantha up from field hockey practice she asked What’s for dinner? And I replied Grilled shrimp, couscous, roasted asparagus and an arugula salad.

She was furious. She said What are you trying to do—starve me to death?

I grew up in the 1960’s and 1970’s.

We drank Kool-Aid, Coca-Cola and Tang (like the astronauts). For breakfast we had Carnation Instant breakfast or Sugar Smacks or Downyflake Waffles. For dinner we ate Swanson’s Pot Pies and Banquet TV dinners.

Iceberg lettuce, frozen French fries, Green Giant canned peas and Bird’s Eye frozen corn in butter sauce were our favorite vegetables.

Del Monte canned peaches or Libby fruit cocktail packed in heavy syrup was our source of fruit.

For snack we ate Lays Potato Chips with Lipton Onion dip.

Dessert consisted of Drakes’s Devil Dogs and Pepperidge Farm chocolate cake.

Such foods are the high sugar, high fat, nutritionally void menu items my generation or the generation after me would never give to their children.

Yet my generation, who ate all that blacklisted food, was not obese.

We were not obese because we ran around. We rode our bicycles. We walked.

We burned all the calories we consumed-- even if the calorie source was without a doubt nutritionally suspect.

Because if bad food choices were the begin-all and end-all of childhood obesity then none of us would have fit in our desk chairs in grammar school.

The prevention of childhood obesity is not simply remedied as President Obama’s Healthy Hunger Free Kids Act proposes.

And I realized Samantha was correct. For the amount of calories she burned on the field, her body needed more than the food I had prepared. Her diet needed more carbs and fat and a bigger portion to support the calories she burned. She was a teenager—and an athlete.

While well-intended, I was starving her to death—albeit with healthy food.

Because healthy food is only as healthy as the correct portion size. One can still starve to death or become obese on good nutrition.

And that is why there is a Facebook page called Nutrition Nannies to support the No Hunger Food Act—a bill aimed at addressing the harsh cut in calories in our nation’s schools. Because some of the kids in our schools are starving under the new regulations—regulations intended to keep children hunger-free.

Healthy weight is not just about the nutritional quality of the food, it’s about the consumption of the food as it is measured against the activity level of an individual.

The solution to childhood obesity is not one size fits all as the food police suggest—it isn’t pantyhose.  

Playing Monopoly

I played Monopoly quite often with my girlfriend Elissa when we were young. We sat crosslegged on the floor of the bedroom she shared with her sister Nina and set up the game. Sometimes Judy Walsh played with us as did Linda Fuller.

But we made up our own rules because playing the game as it was intended just took too long. And so we dealt the deeds out like a deck of cards and then we traded properties until the colors were complete for purchasing hotels and houses.

The value of our real estate was equal even though the number of owned properties varied among us---but that was okay—it was fair.

And sometimes the winner was not the owner of Park Place and Boardwalk. Sometimes the winner owned all the low income properties like Baltic Avenue but found themselves fortunate enough to have all the players land on them with great frequency.

And sometimes even with the amended rules the game still took too long and so we abandoned play.

We had better things to do—although I cannot remember what they were.

And today I heard that the owners of Monopoly are switching out the “iron” for a “cat” piece. The “shoe” barely escaped execution.

But much of that would not have bothered us at all. Because (to the best of my tenous  recollection) Elissa always chose the dog, I always chose the top hat, Judy always chose the racecar and Linda always chose the thimble.

No one wanted to be the iron.

And I don’t think anyone would have wanted to have been the cat either.

But the shoe? That’s a different story. Shoes are loved by all girls—universally--including the ones who sat on Elissa’s floor oh so long ago.

Girls who grew up--- yet still remember.

Missing Socks

I have no doubt than I am no different than anyone else.

Two socks go through the wash and dry cycle and only one comes out the other side.

It’s a mystery at the level of Who built Stonehenge?

But what I also find troublesome is that no matter how filled my pen and pencil container is, every time I need to use a writing instrument, none are to be had.

They have vanished with no children to blame.

Yet unlike the hair elastics that I still find scattered on the floor in every room in my house despite the fact that my nest has been empty for months, I never find  a pen or pencil randomly lying around for me to gather up and put back in its place.

It is as if the pens and pencils either biodegrade or are assumed into heaven like the Virgin Mary.

And for as many theories as there are out there regarding how and why Stonehenge was built, we will never know the truth for sure. All we do know with certainty is that buried in the surrounding area of the monoliths are human bones, roman coins and other artifacts.

But no socks—or pens either.

And so the mystery continues….

Ed Koch--and the Superintendant

A couple of months after Steve Leitman became our Superintendent of Schools he called me over from a crowd of women and asked How am I doing?

I smiled and said You mean in an Ed Koch how am I doing kind of way?

His response was Exactly.

When Steve Leitman came to our school district, educationally we were stuck in the Stone Age. There was no technology. The “teachers in charge” pretty much ran the schools; the middle school was actually a junior high; and kindergarteners learned more from Sesame Street than in the classroom.

There was no FLES program. Music and band was lackluster—especially in the middle school. The few playing fields available for our usage were in dangerous disrepair. The buildings were falling down. There was no classroom space. And “Spirit Day” at the high school was all about the consumption of spirits.

The district needed a leader. We needed a decision maker—someone who was not afraid to have a point of view. We also needed someone who was not afraid to surround himself with people brighter than himself. We needed a person who was comfortable asking a parent what their opinion was because he understood parents know things—they are an excellent resource—especially when it comes to special education. We needed a leader who was visible--who was not too full-of-himself to walk the hallways, or to play saxophone with the kids at the middle school concert.  We needed a leader who did not attend varsity  playoff games for ten minutes with his back to the field, but rather stayed the duration to cheer the athletes on. We needed a seamless curriculum and articulation. We needed Steve Leitman.

And yesterday I had the opportunity to watch and listen to the funeral services for Mayor Ed Koch.

The ex-mayor was a good man—a mensch. He never wavered in his beliefs. He pulled New York City from the depths of despair. He viewed criticism as opportunity. And it was his foundation that allowed Rudy Giuliani and Mike Bloomberg to propel the Big Apple into the healthy thriving city it is today.

New York City is New York City because of Ed Koch.

And I answered the Superintendent’s question directly—as was his expectation. He did not expect me to be disingenuous. He did not expect me to parrot back what he wanted to hear—he expected me to tell him precisely how he was doing.

And I said that even if people did not agree with his educational decisions, they were happy to have a leader who actually made one. Because people like a commander who commands. And as long as he remained true to his word and did not use smoke and mirror tactics as camouflage, he would be well-respected.

Our district is our district because of Steve Leitman.

And when I compare what the school district had then with the former Superintendent , to what we have now with the current guy, I realize sometimes you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. Not every successor is Rudy Giuliani or Mike Bloomberg. Not everyone builds on a solid foundation. Some successors do not take things to the next level. 

And so the better question to be answered right now is not How is Rob Feirsen the current Superintendent of Schools doing, but rather What (if anything) is he doing?

A Homework Pass

When my children were in Stewart School some of the teachers on occasion generously issued homework passes. It was a no questions asked reprieve from homework duty.

And as Homework Manager I appreciated this gift as much as my children.

Because sometimes either you can’t, or just don’t feel like doing your homework.

And being that my boss is so much like me and understands my spirit, this past Christmas, she too gave me the gift of a blog pass. She said I had earned it.  I was her employee of the year.

And I am using it today—post Superbowl—the first Monday in February—also known as the most called in sick day of the year.

Because slacking off can be  a healthy thing—especially if used with discretion. Everyone deserves a no questions asked reprieve from work.

Soliciting Botox

When Kara came home from her first semester in college, she was ill with a fever and a sore throat.

And so I brought her to the pediatrician’s office.

And the female physician in the practice examined her and did a rapid strep test. But in the interim of waiting for the results, that same female pediatrician came into the examining room and handed me flyer. She said I just wanted you to know that I am now doing botox parties—and I thought maybe you and your friends might be interested.

I was speechless.

My first thought was Do I look like I need botox? Because that was insulting. Which was then followed by Or is it that my sense of style and general upkeep suggests that I already do botox? Which still was insulting, but to a lesser extent.

But my third thought was Wow this is really awkward and inappropriate in a pediatrician’s office—and if I really did want botox why would I go to her—a pediatrician?

As I did some food preparation yesterday I put The Katie Couric Show on. The topic was Dying to be Beautiful. The program chronicled plastic surgery procedures gone awry. And while I am normally not disturbed by blood and gore, I was sickened by the disfigurement and death of people at the hands of poorly qualified physicians.

The take home message was: Never allow any cosmetic procedure to be done without access to emergency care and never agree to have any physician who is not board certified in plastic surgery perform any medical procedure or injection of any kind.

And then I thought of that female pediatrician injecting botox at parties up on the North Shore. I wondered if the money was worth the risk—for everyone involved.

And Kara’s strep test was positive and we went home with prescription for an antibiotic. And the next time she was ill I requested that one of the male doctors examined her. I prefer that my child’s physician focus on the specialty in which they were trained—pediatrics-- not vanity and avarice.

 Because the first line of the Hippocratic oath is Do no Harm and the second line is I will not use the knife, not even on sufferers from stone, but will withdraw in favor of such men as are engaged in this work—2 key things in the memo that that female pediatrician apparently did not receive.